Risks and Rewards
by Blood Dark Sun
Summary: An Engmano Valentine: Romano decides he has to man up and deal with the crush he has on England.


_For Eric and Drystan. I hope you both have a very lovely Valentine's Day._

_..._

**Risks and Rewards.**

Romano was the unluckiest nation in the world. "Spain, stop eating and help me. Help me think of _something,_ dammit. I'm sick of this."

"Lovi, I've told you a million times, I will not help you get close to that pirate. Don't waste your time. Now shut up and eat your churros." Spain shoved the porcelain plate closer.

Romano shook his head, absently taking one and twirling it in his fingers instead of eating it. "I don't get it, bastard. You were a pirate, too. Why do you hold that against him?"

"Just steer clear of him. He's cold and rude and – and – well, just don't bother." The elder nation ate another churro, dusting crumbs off the front of his shirt.

The two friends lounged in the spacious tomato fields at Spain's home, drinking margaritas and eating (or not eating, in Romano's case) various delicacies. The sun was warm, making him languid, but he still tried to focus. He'd come here to get some advice, and once again, the tomato bastard was pulling this negative know-it-all shit. Dammit! If he couldn't get help from the so-called 'Country of Passion,' where the fuck was he supposed to get help?

Because Romano needed help…badly.

A few months ago there had been a summer meeting in Weymouth, one of the UK's busiest beach resorts. England had chosen to host it there because the weather was fine, the scenery beautiful, and in his opening address to the assembled nations, his national pride had shown through in the (uncharacteristic) sweet, beaming smile he'd given everyone.

Romano liked that smile, and he liked warm beaches. He'd been interested in exploring the town after the meetings were done. From what he'd seen, it wasn't exactly an international jet-setter's hotspot, but it wasn't a dump, either. A nice family area, he'd thought, gazing out the conference room window at the cliffs in the distance, the children playing in the water.

But just seconds later, the island nation had become red and angry, listening to derisive commentary about his beaches from France, America, even Greece: all countries with famous resorts. Their combined voices had escalated inside the conference room for several minutes before the potato bastard had bellowed at them all to shut up and focus.

And so they'd shut up and focused. But Romano could tell that England had lost his enthusiasm for the meeting. He'd conducted it with clinical attentiveness, barking at anyone who interrupted or tried to derail the discussions. Which was sad, but only a little. Romano was at least glad the blond _could_ focus. At least the meetings wouldn't run overtime.

After the meeting, Spain had dragged him off to dinner with France. "Sorry about this food," the pervert had apologized, gesturing to the fish and chips, the ale. "He can't do anything right in the kitchen."

Spain hadn't cared much and had eaten it all, although he'd washed it all down with a lot of liquor, too. "Whatever. Let's go play on the beach after dinner!"

And Romano, perhaps remembering the disappointment on England's face that morning, had tried to eat his dinner with enjoyment. He'd tried, but of course, other than the tomato soup, he had been unable to choke any of it down. This was disheartening. He wondered whether anyone had ever tried to teach England how to cook properly. Surely a few culinary pointers wouldn't go amiss.

Was that the beginning of his obsession with England? He still couldn't pinpoint when it had actually begun. But he'd found himself drawn more and more to the temperamental blond over the next few months. Found himself fantasizing about sitting close, talking intimately, sharing laughter and – and kisses, dammit. About holding him, stroking his hair, seeing those bright green eyes crinkle in a smile at a joke Romano had made. And – and he wanted England to do those things for him, too. To nurture and support him, the way lovers were supposed to. The Italian watched and listened and wondered how to approach him. Wondered if he even should try. But oh, he wanted to.

At first he'd dismissed this as childish infatuation – a twisted sort of pity for the rude nation with lame beaches who couldn't cook – but England wasn't really a rude nation, and Weymouth wasn't really a lame beach. Romano had liked it, once he'd gotten away from Spain and France and spent some time wandering around the town alone. It was a lot like some of his own beach towns. Of course this had made him wonder what the famous American beach resorts were like. He'd planned to look them up online, later, but somehow never had bothered.

The half-nation was quite scared of this – uh – this fucking _crush_. He hated calling it that but forced himself to admit that by now, that's actually what it was. Romano had never had a crush on anyone before. Once, long ago, Spain had tried to convince him that the two of them were actually meant to be lovers, but the Italian had scoffed, and after that the two southern nations had settled down into a friendly, brotherly relationship. Spain had always been willing – even eager – to assist Romano with any problems he'd had. Of course, the younger nation had never come to Spain with – with _love questions_ before. Fuck, how stupid he'd felt the first time he'd asked. Still felt stupid now.

He'd made the attempt, though. Surely Spain would have some suggestions? Once Romano had admitted to himself that this – crush (dammit) – wasn't going to go away easily, he'd gone to his old friend to ask for help.

Repeatedly.

And Spain kept waving him aside with comments like the pirate one. Basically saying that England wasn't worth Romano's precious time. How the fuck would Spain know? It's not like he had ever dated —

Oh. Maybe that was why. Maybe they _had_ dated, and it had ended badly.

Or maybe Spain had wanted England and been rejected. Pfft.

Still twirling the churro, Romano cast his mind back to the time when he'd been a kerchiefed young nation slacking around Spain's enormous house. He'd heard plenty of vitriol against the island nation back then. Those two had always been going head to head with their powerful navies, each trying to gain control of the shipping lanes to the lucrative natural resources of the New World. As hard as he tried to remember, though, he couldn't remember any indications that the pirates had shared anything more than mutual animosity.

"Did you ever date him?" he blurted out. Maybe a surprise question would get him a straight answer.

"What? No! Why would I ever want to date that _maldito bastardo_? No." Spain drank the last of the margaritas. "Pitcher's empty, Lovi. Your turn to go mix them."

"Forget it, bastard. I'm going home." This was a completely pointless waste of his time. Again. He scrambled up off the soft warm earth and prepared to leave.

"Suit yourself, my friend. Take care!" Spain lay back in the field and prepared for a siesta.

…

A few months later, Romano sat before the old computer in his bedroom and tried to get fresh ideas. If Spain wouldn't help him, he'd help himself, dammit. No matter how scary that idea actually was. He'd spent the winter holidays alone, moping and feeling sorry for himself and daydreaming about the island nation. Right now Romano felt like an ass, but he finally understood that he either needed to step up and take action, or back off entirely.

(He'd tried backing off entirely, several times, and every time he'd made that decision he'd had sweet, fun dreams in which England figured prominently, so he kind of figured that wouldn't work.)

Well. Probably, _probably_ the best thing to do was to go into it expecting rejection. Then he wouldn't be hurt later. He'd spent a lot of embarrassed time in front of the computer reading about the United Kingdom, its history, its culture. Kings, druids, religious struggles, punk rock, Irn Bru, sheep farming – you name it, he'd looked it up. Romano now felt like Italy's expert on things British. If he ever did get close to England, they certainly wouldn't lack for conversational topics.

Since it was near Valentine's Day he decided on a bold risk: an online order for a dozen red roses. He looked up the address of England's London home for the delivery. But what to put on the card? "Be mine, bastard"? Pfft. Maybe he should stay anonymous, to start.

No. That was a coward's way out. Romano knew he wasn't the bravest nation in the world, but – but he couldn't let himself be cowardly about romance. That would be stupid and embarrassing.

He settled for "Let's get together sometime" and clicked the "Buy" button, heart pounding. There was a meeting at the beginning of March. M-maybe something good would happen by then.

"Dammit!" Dammit, he'd forgotten to sign his fucking name! Freudian slip? Shit. Well, he'd just have to send another one. He filled out the online card properly this time, double- and triple-checking it, and clicked "Buy" once more.

Then he had a hefty drink and went to bed, trying not to panic.

…

At the March meeting England was acting frightful. He took a seat all the way in the back of the room, practically digging his chair into the wall behind him, scowling constantly and meeting no one's eyes. France (the host) tried to tease him a few times, but the island nation didn't rise to the bait. He simply shook his head "no" to each taunt and kept his eyes on his laptop. Romano, nervously watching from across the room, sat puzzling this out. What could have upset him so? The roses? Surely not. His heart ached. He wanted to comfort England, to take his hand and help chase his anger away. But – but if he wouldn't even meet Romano's eyes –?

Maybe he was uninterested. Or whatever the opposite of interest was. Maybe he disliked Romano and couldn't stomach the idea of dating him.

Maybe –

But it was pointless to dwell on it. He'd say hello to him after the meeting. If England reacted normally – that is to say, like the gentleman he so often could be – Romano would continue forward. He _would,_ dammit.

…

"H-h-hey, bastard," he stammered later, in the lobby, feeling like a fool.

But England raised his beautiful green eyes from where they'd been staring at the floor. He turned a painful shade of red and ran away wordlessly, frowning.

"H-hey! W-wait," the brunet called out, but too weakly; the sound didn't carry. That had been an extremely backward reaction. Why was the bastard so scared?

He wondered what floor, what room, England had drawn this time, but didn't follow. Sighing, he trudged towards the stairwell to head to his own room.

"Oi, Lovi, want to get some dinner with me and _Francia_?"

"N-no thanks. Have fun."

Spain narrowed his eyes, peered around the area, but apparently found nothing to upset him, so he shrugged and left.

If only he and England could manage to talk somewhere quietly, he'd bet they'd get along beautifully. Romano felt it in his heart. Wanted it to be true. He'd _make_ it be true, if he ever got the chance, dammit. He'd make England feel so good, so cherished…

But alone in his hotel room now he simply sat and nursed his depression. Romano was a lonely nation, and he wanted someone. Wanted England. Dammit! He looked at the phone a few times, debating whether to call him or not, but decided not to. Surely the blond had a dinner date. Maybe that was it. Maybe he was seeing someone else, and hadn't known how to react to Romano's gestures. That would make sense. But fuck.

The frustrated nation headed to the hotel restaurant, eyes constantly scanning the crowd for that shock of blond hair.

England did show up a little later. Holding his breath, Romano watched him stand in the doorway, apparently checking to see if there was anyone he could stand to dine with. The brunet watched his eyes flick to America's table, Greece's, the table where Japan sat with China and Hong Kong; he apparently didn't want to join any of them.

The green eyes then caught Romano's. Caught and held them mercilessly; he could feel his face burning, and he was far too nervous to offer a smile. England too seemed stricken, and after a few painful seconds he turned and stalked out of the restaurant.

Chigi! What had Romano done wrong? All he'd done was send the bastard a dozen roses.

Twice.

"Shit!" He punched the tabletop, making the glassware rock dangerously.

Half the nations in the room turned at that, but when they saw it was only Romano, they all went back to their meals. Fuck, he'd just bet the bastard thought it was a joke, a prank. Why wouldn't he? Twenty-four red roses on Valentine's Day from a near total stranger? Romano could feel just how panicky he himself would be, if he'd been on the receiving end. "Fuck," he muttered, head in hands. He couldn't even eat any more, so he signed the check and left the room.

On the way out of the restaurant he stopped at the front desk and charmed the concierge into giving him England's room number. Maybe he'd go see if the blond was there. At least he might be able to explain himself.

Nobody answered his knock, but Romano could have sworn he'd heard footsteps, which had stopped immediately when he'd knocked. He tried again, still receiving no response, and when it became clear that the island nation wouldn't answer, he shuffled off to his hotel room, brain whirling as he tried to figure out what to do next. Maybe he'd skip tomorrow's meeting. It was tearing him up inside, this not-knowing.

…

England did indeed think it had been a prank. When he'd received the first (unsigned) delivery of red roses, he'd assumed it a typical throwaway gesture from the frog, who did something like this every Valentine's and failed to follow up. He had set the vase in the window, to catch the sunlight, but eventually he'd gotten really pissed off about it and had flung the whole thing into the trash, vase and all.

An hour later, another delivery had arrived, with a card reading "Happy St. Valentine's Day, _Angleterre_! XOX." Eh? Two deliveries from Francy-pants? He'd scowled at this one, too, and tossed it.

Very late in the day another floral delivery had come. By this time England had been furious at the interruptions and had almost pitched the thing right back into the delivery girl's astonished face. But then he'd forced himself to take it inside and read the card. From Romano.

_Romano?_ As in the gorgeous, hot-tempered South Italy?

Of course he had pitched this one too. The sodding frog was the least subtle prankster in Europe. _Romano, my arse_, he'd thought.

A few times since then the island nation had found himself daydreaming…what if it really had been from Romano? Mm, he could just imagine cozying up to him, sharing romantic thoughts and little amused commentary on life in general. Holding those slim hands, nuzzling that shining dark hair. He'd bet Romano would be a wonderful boyfriend, very attentive and romantic, if he was with someone he really cared about.

Which is probably why France had chosen Romano's name for the prank. If he'd put someone else - Spain, Russia, Japan - England would never have fallen for it.

Well, he hadn't fallen for it this time, either, but it certainly distracted him.

And now he couldn't even act normally around Romano. Bloody hell, this was so stupid. Just because Francy-pants felt like getting clever, England was making himself look like an arse. In front of Romano and everyone else, too. He got up to pace a little, and someone knocked on the door.

He froze, and then climbed quietly onto the bed, holding his breath and staring at the door as though it might open of its own accord. Who could it be? He didn't want to see anyone right now. The knocker knocked again, and England stayed still, knowing that France or America would be banging and yelling if they really wanted to speak to him.

Several minutes later, when the knocking had definitely stopped, he let out a big, noisy sigh and collapsed back onto the mattress. Bollocks.

…

The Italian showered and went to bed early, knowing England would somehow figure in his dreams. How he wished the bastard would have opened the hotel room door! They could have talked, and he would at least now know what the hell was bothering the blond. Could maybe have gotten a little further than that, too. He rolled over and punched his pillow before going to sleep.

…

In the middle of the night something woke him up. He glanced around the moonlit room and saw Spain in the other bed, an arm thrown over his face as he slept on his back. Romano was sleepy and confused. What had awakened him?

Ah. His phone had come out of sleep mode and the screen was glowing. Why? It wasn't near morning yet, when the alarm was set to go off. He scooped it off the bedside table. Maybe Veneziano had a problem.

He caught his breath. An email from England! His eyes darted to Spain, who still slept, and so Romano quietly worked his way into a sitting position with his back against the headboard, covers up over his legs, and tried to still his pounding heart before opening the email.

_Romano,_

_I've been behaving like an arse. Sorry._

_England_

Not the eager communication the brunet had hoped for. But – but it was an opening. And even though it was two in the morning, England must still be awake right now! Romano didn't hesitate to respond. He thought for a moment before writing something very calm and generic, trying to sound supportive.

_It's all right. Something's obviously bothering you. Want to chat about it?_

He hoped England wouldn't find that too pushy. Maybe this was just the opening he needed. Dammit, this was –

_The frog has been playing bloody stupid pranks on me at your expense, that's all._

France? What did that pervert have to do with it? He asked about this, adding, _I don't want you to feel stupid around me._ No shit.

_Eh, I'm used to his shite. I should be back to normal by morning. I'll let you get your sleep?_

The fact that he'd phrased it as a question was encouraging. _I can stay awake a little longer, if you want to talk?_ Romano mentally crossed his fingers.

And the response was slightly encouraging, too. _Well, if you're sure? I know it's rather late._

Romano wiggled himself into a more comfortable position. He wished he had a cup of coffee handy. Not that he would actually fall asleep after finally getting to talk to England! No, coffee simply helped him think. He checked on Spain, but the older nation was still asleep. _I don't mind at all. Tell me what France did to upset you about me._ Maybe Spain had said something to France about his crush, and France had begun teasing England?

_Sent me three bloody vases of roses on Valentine's Day, and one of the deliveries said it was from you. He's such a wanker! Does he think I won't guess who sent them?_

Romano took a deep breath. He had to take the risk. Had to! _Please don't get mad and don't stop emailing me. Just listen. I sent them. Two of them._

England left the response so long that Romano was afraid he'd panicked again. Please, please write back, he begged silently, and then an email came through. _Why?_

"Why?" Romano repeated out loud, and then clapped a hand over his mouth. But Spain, the eternal snoozer, didn't awaken. _Because I like you,_ the brunet typed furiously, hitting the Send button before he could change his mind, lose his nerve.

He started biting his nails while waiting for an answer. Dammit! What if – what if –

But England didn't answer. And still didn't answer. Romano was mentally kicking himself for going too fast when he heard a very tentative tap on the door. So tiny that he thought maybe he'd imagined it. He got up and peeked, and yes, he could see the shadow of feet through the crack at the bottom of the door. England? Dammit! He quickly peered into the mirror, fixing his hair as best he could, and tiptoed to the door, opening it slowly, holding his breath.

No one was there! But he saw movement at the end of the hallway, someone rounding the corner as they walked away. "England? England!" he hissed, coming right out into the well-lit hall.

In just his underwear. Fuck.

And of course the self-locking hotel room door closed behind him, just as a blushing England, in grey sweats, came back around the corner with a hopeful and nervous expression on his face.

Romano pressed his lips together and walked to the blond with a purposeful step, trying to pretend he wasn't standing around in front of his (adorably rumpled) crush with nothing on but red silk boxers. "Are you all right?" he asked, extending a shaky hand.

England didn't take it, but gazed at him with those luminous green eyes. "That – that was really you writing the emails?"

Romano frowned and dropped his hand. "Yes, bastard! What did you think?"

The blond's voice dropped to a quiet mutter. "I – I – er, well, I wondered if maybe someone else was – was pranking me with your computer." He blushed and stared at Romano's bare feet.

"Do you get treated like that a lot?" the brunet asked him quietly. How miserable that would be. England simply nodded without raising his gaze.

"I-it's all true," Romano confessed in a rush. He didn't care if he was going too fast now; he needed to say it, to reassure England. "I – I do like you, and I did send you those roses, and I – I was the one talking to you on the emails." He felt his face getting very hot. Why didn't the bastard react?

But then he did react. He tilted his head, eyes twinkling through his messy blond bangs, with the beginnings of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. "You really are serious?" His voice was hesitant, as if he still couldn't believe it.

"I - I really am serious." Romano held out his hand again and this time England took it, quite shyly, ducking his head again. The brunet felt his heart thumping, and he smiled softly, squeezing the cool hand. "W-will you go out with me?"

"W-well, yes, I - I would like that! And I'm – sorry I was a git, earlier." He stepped a little closer to Romano.

"Don't worry about it. I was too chicken to ask you, before this." Romano took his other hand and they stood together under the hall lights, now smiling idiotically at each other.

Then the island nation blinked. "I, ah, don't suppose you have your room key hidden in there?" he asked with a little snicker, raising an impressive eyebrow at the sight of the boxers.

"Fuck. No, dammit. I'll have to wake up the stupid tomato bastard." He began to turn but the blond tugged on his hands.

"W-wait. Don't go? I – I have a spare bed and no roommate. You could come over and sleep in the extra bed? And then maybe – maybe we could talk for a little bit, before we go to sleep?"

Romano's heart was soaring, and he smiled again. "Yes. That sounds like a great plan, bastard. Where's your room?"

"Come with me." England led him by the hand through the halls to his own hotel room.

"Why don't you have a roommate?" Romano wondered, nervously daring to lace their fingers together, feeling quite relieved at the answering pressure as England held on tightly. Oh, he felt so damn high right now -

"Normally I room with blasted America, but he's all of a sudden decided he wants to get his hands on Romania. They're rooming together this time, and so I paid a little extra to have the place to myself." He unlocked the door and held it open for Romano.

"Damn glad you did." The Italian entered and waited around, still nervous, until England had locked the door behind them.

"Come sit," he invited his guest, and Romano sat on the disheveled bed that England gestured to. "Would you like a blanket? Are you cold?"

"Thank you." Romano felt very shy and awkward right now. What if he said, or did, something wrong? Sitting here on England's bed? He took deep breaths to calm himself further.

England pulled the spare blanket off the other bed before wrapping Romano up in it tenderly. "Comfortable?"

He offered an encouraging smile. "Yes. Very much so." Everything was going so well! He'd be extremely careful, having gotten this far.

The two nations then spoke for a long time, getting to know one another better. Despite all his fantasizing Romano couldn't believe how easy and comfortable it was to speak with his new friend. Both of them kept finding little reasons to touch each other – a waggling finger making a point during an argument, a warm elbow jostling as the punch line of a joke was reached.

Eventually the sun began to lighten the sky. "I'm sorry I kept you awake for so long," England said with a bit of a sigh. "I guess I got a little carried away."

Romano laughed a little. "Don't worry about it, bastard. I did too, and – and it was fun. Why don't we just go to sleep and forget about the morning meeting? We can go down at lunchtime?" He tried to stifle a yawn and failed.

The blond nodded in wonder. "Yes. I – I'm always so bloody attentive to these schedules. A morning off wouldn't hurt anyone, them or us." He smiled sleepily and yawned in turn.

Ah, dammit, he was adorable…Instead of heading to the spare bed, Romano simply burrowed under the covers of this one and held them open. "Well?"

England seemed as though he couldn't believe this was happening, and then he broke from his indecision and scrambled under the blankets. "You - er - well, ah, I - I hope you sleep well, Romano. Thank you for - for everything, tonight." He snuggled down onto his pillow facing his new friend.

"I'm pretty happy about tonight, too," he murmured. "Good night, bastard. Sleep well." Romano lay on his side, facing England. He wanted to fall asleep looking at him, revisiting everything that had happened tonight.

Within seconds, the island nation was asleep, a little smile on his face. Romano took a contented breath and reached out to softly stroke the blond hair.

He was the luckiest nation in the world.


End file.
